Damaged Goods
by Ryder85
Summary: PostAntarctic. Remy finds an unlikely friendship in the mansions outcast, Bobby Drake. Chapter Five is up. Pls read and review!
1. Chapter One

Damaged Goods: Chapter One

Disclaimer: Sadly, none of the X-Men belong to me. At least, not in this lifetime.

Universe: I don't really know a lot about any one in particular, so it's sort of a mutt. Pretty self-explanitory, though. A couple of things are different from what I've come to think of as the norm. But believe me, it's all for a reason. If you have any questions feel free to ask.

Notes: As always, reviews are greatly appreciated, regardless of what you think. Everyone is entitled to their own opinion, even if it happens to be wrong. laughs maniacally Also, input on any of the characters is always welcome. Any advice anyone can give me will be well received.

Additional Notes: If anyone can let me in on the story behind Rogue and Joseph, that would be super. I'd like to include their relationship in this creation, but I don't know much about them. Only what I've managed to piece together from all your works. :)

Now on to the story....

* * *

_"Something has been taken from deep inside of me  
The secret I've kept locked away no one can ever see  
Wounds so deep they never show, they never go away  
Like moving pictures in my head for years and years they've played..."_

_-Easier To Run, Linkin Park_

He sat alone in his bedroom, a bottle of bourbon in one hand, and a switchblade in the other. The space echoed with the sound of his breathing. Solitude wasn't foreign to him; despite living in a house with at very least, fifty other people, he rarely talked to anyone. Point of fact: it had been roughly two days since he had seen the face of another human being. His bedroom was dark, like it always was. He preferred it over brightness; his red on black eyes were extremely light sensitive, and besides, darkness hid things from view. Things he didn't want to see, or acknowledge. Darkness made things easier. And Lord knows the last thing he needed was more complications.  
The room was in horrible disarray; it looked as if a group of fratboys had come partying through, breaking some things and leaving behind others. The hardwood floors were littered with empty bottles of varying types of alcohol, many articles of dirty clothing in different stages of wear, and broken glass, from bottle and picture frame alike. The bed hadn't been made in days, and the sheets were in terrible need of a wash, but it was unlikey they would get the attention they needed. The down comforter, once beautifully designed with a pattern of interlocking squares of black and deep burgundy was now washed out, devoid of beauty, and stinking like alcohol, much like the man himself. The walls had been painted a complimentary shade of navy blue, but like all other things in the room, was in desperate need of a good days worth of repair. One of his more violent moods had seen pictures ripped off the walls and smashed, taking chunks of drywall with them. A six drawered mahogony dresser placed flush against the wall opposite the bed had been emptied of its contents long ago, but the drawers remained open, as if mourning the loss. A door to the right of the dresser gave way to a small closet, it too beihg void of anything more substantial than a dust bunny. A door on the left side of the dresser led to the attached ensuite, complete with jacquzzi bathtub, and standing stall shower with massaging head. Dirty towels in many degrees of dampness adorned the tiled floor, and the mirror hung above the marble countertop was cracked in a circular impression, as though something hefty had been pelted into its centre.

The sole occupant of this disgraceful dwelling sat perched on the edge of a dark brown, leather wingback chair placed in the corner of the room nearest the bed, contemplating his reflection in the blade of the knife. The handle was warm in his grasp; indeed, he had been sitting in a similar fashion for quite sometime, eyes riveted by that which he saw in the cool metal. It would be so easy. Too easy in fact, to draw the knife across his wrist and end it all. He lifted the knife; it felt weightless, where before it had been dragging his hand down. He placed the sharpened blade against the inside of his left wrist, and pressed. Yes, death would be easy this way. He had always possessed a high tolerance for pain, so it was unlikely to become too much. But death was not his intention. Death would end his troubles, end his pain, and for a man of his sins that was unacceptable. He intended only to hurt; to watch the knife cut through skin, watch the blood rush to the site and spill out down his arm. He wanted to feel the intense sting as his life dripped out the slash in his body. He wanted punishment.

"Remy! Remy, my friend!"

A sudden voice rang out in the still silence of his room, and it was soon accompanied by a sharp knocking against the door. His undamaged wrist flicked sharply, and the blade disappeared into the handle. Another flick, and the knife slid under the bed with a soft clattering. He pulled his shirt sleeve down over his bloody wrist just as his guest opened the door and stepped inside without waiting for bidden entrance.

Dr. Henry McCoy was a man of contradictions. He was immense in stature, standing well over six feet when slouching, and nearly as wide with muscle. Great beefy arms, barrell chest, and tree trunk legs. His ears more resembled a dog's than a humans, and even with mouth closed his canines protruded from his lips. His body was covered head to toe with incredibley soft blue fur and instead of finger and toe nails inch long claws grew from the ends of his digits. By all appearances, he well deserved the nickname "Beast." To converse with the man, however, is to understand the true meaning behind the saying "do not judge a book by it's cover." Hank, as he preferred to be called, is extremely intelligant, and more eloquent than most best selling authors. He retained a rare kindness, a gentleness, that is rarely seen in this too harsh world we live in.

Hank's delicate sense of smell was offended by the overwhelming stench of burboun, and other non-recognizable odours. His eyesight wasn't at par with his scenting capablities, and he had to squint in the darkness. "Remy, are you in here?"he asked, reaching out with one hand to blindly search for the light switch. "I thought we discussed how sitting in the dark in not condusive to good eyesight."

His fingers found their intended target, and soft golden light filled the room in all it's embarrassing glory. Hank made a soft sound of self-satisfaction, as Remy shrank back from the light, shielding his eyes with both hands.

"Merde, Monsieur Bete!"he shouted, blinking furiously against the immediate and reactionary tears. "I tol' you! Mes yeuz don't work like everyone elses."

Hank was unimpressed with Remy's anger. He wrinkled his nose, and clicked his tongue in disapproval as he gazed around the upheaved room. "Well, how am I to know that when you've never let me examine you? But I'll save that argument for another day. I believe we had appointment today."

Remy smacked his forehead with the heel of his right hand in a fake show of frustration. "Je suis tres desole! I forgot!"

Hank frowned, and stepped further into the room, undeterred by its appearance. Although Remy was a terrific liar, he also had a terrific memory, and Hank refused to believe that he had simply forgotten the appointment. No, more likely, he had remembered, and blown it off in favour of sitting in the dark with a bottle of bourbon, doing God only knows what. For his part, Remy had the good sense to look sheepish, but Hank wasn't buying. He brushed off a small corner of the bed, and settling down on it, bending forward at the waist and clasping his hands together.

"You may be a terrific poker player, and by association, liar, but I don't believe you for one minute. You blew off this appointment just like you tried to blow off all the other appointments. Did you think I would forget? Or maybe I would assume you had better things to do? You know that one of the conditions of your return was that you see me regularly. Professor Xavier is right to have instituted those conditions, and believe that you need my help. You are sick, friend, and the only way to remedy that is with medical attention."

Remy didn't reply, and did naught but stare into the palms of his open hands, as if trying to read his own future. For all outward appearances, he had not even heard Hank's response. Hank frowned, and reached out, clasping one of Remy's hands in each of his own. Remy was not small, and neither were his hands, but enclosed in Hank's they looked almost childlike in comparison. Hank tugged gently, and reluctantly, Remy looked up and held his gaze, if somewhat pitifully.

"From your lack of evident response, I can only assume you want to disappoint the Professor. You blow of these appointments because you want him to retract your welcome mat, so to speak. You want him to ask you to leave, so you can be on your own again, depending on no one but yourself."

"What do you wan' me to say?" Remy ripped his hands from Hanks', and stood with a fraction of the speed he was capable of. He crossed the room in two big strides, and grabbed the last unopened bottle of Jack Daniels off his dresser. "Dat I don' wan' to make de Professeur mad at me? Dat I'll do anyt'ing to stay? You t'ink I wan' to stay in a place where everyone hates me? I can feel deir hatred, Bete. Deir disgust. It pours off dem when dey sleep, suffocates me in m' bed. You say mebbe I want de Professeur to kick me out? Huh. Mebbe you right."

Hank watched him with a calculating eye as he knocked his head back and took a long swallow of the amber liquid. He stood slowly from the edge of the bed, and in one fluid flash of blue fur, he was nearly ontop of Remy, gripping his empty hand fiercely. Remy's eyes widened with surprise, but he was otherwise motionless. When Remy was in peak physical and mental condition, there were few people in the world who could surprise him like Hank just had. But when he was entering the second week of the best and worst bender of his life, his capacities were equal with that of a ninety year old woman suffering from osteoperosis.

Hank's beady black eyes narrowed coldly, and for a moment, Remy's heart stopped in his chest. Then if at all possible, the doctor's hand, the same hand that could do some of the most delicate work Remy had ever seen, tightened even more. The Cajun thief could almost hear the bones grinding together, but still he did not move. At this point, even the slightest grimace could be seen as giving in to the pain, and that was the last thing Remy was about.

Hank pulled on Remy's wrist, but this time there was nothing gentle or concerned about the gesture. He lifted the appendage, held it at eye level, then with the other hand ripped back Remy's sleeve. Shock showed clearly on his features as he took in the neat red line of damaged flesh. He had had his suspicions when the coppery smell of blood had first wound it's way into his naval cavity, but obviously he hadn't been expecting to be proved right. He raised his gaze to Remy's practised poker face, and let go of the wrist.

"I cut myself shaving,"the younger man replied. He sounded wooden, almost dummy like, as though he had spent hours saying the line over and over again until he felt he could spit it out without any emotion at all. Hank fell back a step. He'd always known that Remy was not doing well since returning from his near death experience in Antarctica, but he hadn't even considered that his problems might've escalated to self-mutilation.

Remy pulled the sleeve back down over his wrist and turned his back on Hank. "You should go,"he said quietly, before taking another swallow of Tennessee whiskey. He should've known there wasn't a snowball chance in hell that Hank would listen, but rational thought wasn't really his thing anymore. But when Hank moved towards him again, took hold on his uninjured wrist, and quietly explained that they would take a trip down to the medlab to fix this, he didn't even tell Hank to take his concern and shove it where the sun don't shine. Because deep down he knew, Hank couldn't watch him twenty four hours a day. And the switchblade was still sitting underneath the bed, waiting patiently for his return.

* * *

In a different part of the mansion, on the ground floor and opposite wing, the twelve hundred square foot garage stank of motor oil, vanilla cupcakes and testosterone. The garage appeared less than a garage, and more like a showroom for the year's most expensive and flashiest vehicles. They ranged from a 2004 Hummer H2, to a 2003 Mazda Miada. As well as the newest releases in the car industry, the garage housed some of the classics. 1972 Dodge Charger, 1951 Chevrolet Bel Air, and 1964 Chevy Impala Convertible. The '69 Ford Mustang Mach 1 Pro Street was a work in progress that had seen better days; more of it's parts lay in various places around the garage rather than under it's hood. Such a monumentous task might seem frustrating and pointless to some, but to the man currently bent over the engine, hunched underneath the hood, it was relaxing, almost meditative. Or, it would be, if not for the seventeen year old boy bouncing on the balls of his feet next to him, with a cupcake held lightly in each fist.

"Ororo said the cupcakes were for Parent Night only, but I figured since I won't be there anyway, I might as well have one now."

Scott Summers set down the pneumatic rachet, and regarded Bobby Drake with a dry look. "You don't know they're not coming. They could surprise you this year."

Bobby was the only student that attended Professor Xavier's School For the Gifted that could get away with calling the teachers by their first names. He'd been living in the dormitory and taking classes at the school since his mutant power manifested at the tender age of twelve. Despite urging from many of the members of faculty, Bobby was reluctant to make friends with students his own age, and instead could usually be found shadowing one of his teachers during their time off. He was small for his age, short and thin as a rail. His baby blue eyes were disarmingly innocent, and one was instantly struck by how naive he seemed. But the adults had a tendency to forget his age, whether it was because he could always underfoot, or because he spoke to them like he was a peer instead of a student.

Bobby liked hanging out with Scott. He liked how the older man didn't talk down to him, didn't dumb down his language for Bobby's sake. When he spent time around Scott, he could usually forget that he didn't have any other friends in the school, and that his parents never called him. He could forget that for the fifth year in a row, he would have no one to show around the school on Parent Night. He liked hanging out with his English and Auto Shop teacher, but Scott had made it an annoying habit of giving Bobby's parents the benefit of the doubt.

He scoffed as Scott returned to removing the car's oil pan. "I bet you an A on my next English essay they don't show up."

Scott sighed, and again put down the rachet. "Bobby, I can't give you a good grade on a bet. That's immoral. Besides, every year you decide a week before the actual night that they aren't gonna show up. I believe that's called 'shielding yourself from disappointment.'"

"No, it's called 'having a realistic view of the world.' Come on, I know you want a piece of this bet. A says my mom calls the night of, and says my dad threw his back out again. Okay, make it a B. Ya know, Logan always said you were a pansy gambler, but I never believed him. After this though..."

He balanced the cupcakes on the wheel well of the Mustang, and crossed his arms in front of his chest. Scott Summers was not an easy man to read, what with his eyes being hidden behind a specifically designed optical visor lensed with ruby quartz. In addition to this, Scott had one hell of a poker face. Not as good as Gambit's, but still definitely above par. But Bobby had spent a lot of time with him, and was just inately good at reading people. So he knew even before Scott opened his mouth that he had lost the battle.

"I'm not gonna bet you, Bobby. Professor Xavier would have my head. All I'm gonna say on the subject is they're your parents, and you should have a little faith in them. Now will you hand me a three eights socket, please?"

Bobby frowned fiercely, but picked up his cupcakes nonetheless, and carried them over to the wooden workbench built against the East wall. Scott was not the only wannabe mechanic in the mansion, and because of this tools were frequently lost or misplaced. It took Bobby several minutes to pinpoint the three eights socket.

He delivered the socket to Scott, received a grumbled thanks in return, and the garage fell silent once more. With very little to occupy his attention, Bobby soon wandered over the old rusted out Dodge Pick-up Logan had been seen puttering around lately. He lifted the hood and stood back, scratching his chin lightly as he scrutinized the truck's engine. Scott watched with a smile; the kid may have the right attitude, but when it came to knowledge about cars and how they work, Bobby knew only slightly more than Jean. And that wasn't saying much.

"Hey, what are you up to tonight, Bobby?"Scott called out. Thankfully, the teen immediately lost interest in the truck and rushed over the Scott's side.

"Why, you have something in mind? Ya know, I've been meaning to check out that new Chucky movie. And since I don't have my license yet, I thought we could check it out together. But I know that you don't really like horror, but I still think it'll be fun any-"

He stopped abruptly mid-sentence, when he noticed the look on Scott's face. As mentioned previously, he was great at reading people, and the guilty blush that rose to Scott's cheeks was impossible to misinterpret.

"Actually, I have a date with Jean tonight. But I heard Jubilee saying earlier that her and a bunch of the other kids were gonna watch all the Halloween movies. That'd be fun, huh?"

Bobby's face fell faster than a barrell over Niagara Falls. He didn't want to spend time with the other kids just as much as they didn't want to spend time with him. None of the adults seemed to realize that the feeling that Bobby didn't belong went both ways. He wasn't anti-social, like he'd heard some of them discussing once before. He just knew when he wasn't wanted. But he didn't want Scott to know any of this. He knew they worried about him enough because of his parents. They didn't need to fret over him having no friends too.

He barely managed to hide his disappointment behind a smile. "Yeah, I'm sure it would be. I love those movies. Maybe I'll check it out."

Scott returned the smile, not once suspecting its veracity. He bent over the engine once more, and resumed work on the stubborn oil pan. When he heard nothing more from Bobby, he straigntened from his task, and was surprised to see him gone. Rarely did Bobby leave a room without making what he referred to as "an exit worthy of Shakespeare." But Scott noticed one thing with a smile; he had left something behind. One of two vanilla sprinkle cupcakes had been placed carefully on the workbench, next to the framed picture of Jean Scott kept there.


	2. Chapter Two

Damaged Goods- Chapter Two

"Impossible is just a big word thrown around by small men who find it easier to live in the world they've been given than to explore the power they have to change it. Impossible is not a fact. It's an opinion. Impossible is not a declaration. It's a dare. Impossible is potential. Impossible is temporary. Impossible is nothing."

-Author unknown

* * *

Bobby Drake loved physics. He loved velocity, trajectory, and calculators. But most of all, he loved that a physics course was required at Professor Xavier's School For the Gifted. The fact that every student had to take it meant it was less likely that Bobby would get singled out. He did his homework alone in his room, so they couldn't hear him talking quietly to himself, so they couldn't see the grin that stretched from ear to ear when he got the right answer. He loved that there was a right answer, and a wrong answer, and nothing in between. He liked things to be black and white. But the truth that Bobby loved the work didn't necessarily mean he was a prodigy. Sometimes, no matter how hard he tried, he failed to arrive at the right answer again and again. It was times like that when he benefited greatly from having a fuzzy blue genious as a friend.

Hank could usually be found in the lower levels of the mansion, hard at work at one of the many projects he frequently took on. Bobby rode the elevator down to the bottom level, and as always when stepping off the mahogony panelled chamber and onto the reflective metal floor, he felt as if he had entered another world. The entirety of the lower level had been lined with highly polished stainless steel, though for what purpose Bobby didn't know. Every room off the long and winding hallway required a four digit passcode to enter; as a senior student with no intention of leaving anytime soon, Bobby had been given access to some, but there were many that remained a mystery. He followed the hallway to the left, clutching his physics binder tightly to his chest. Whenever down in this wing of the mansion, even though he had permission, Bobby half-expected someone to come out of a locked door and shout at him for being where he didn't belong. But as everytime before, no one stopped him as he entered his access code and slipped into the medlab.

Hank's most frequented area of the mansion was fourty two hundred square feet of the most advanced medical equipment in the world. Hank had regular access to diagnostic machines that most hospital's would kill for. Bobby didn't know the names of any of them, or how they worked, but he knew that he ever got seriously sick, he would make sure Hank was his doctor. As the door _whooshed _shut behind him, Bobby became aware that the doctor was not alone. When he was, classical music could be heard playing at such a level as to shatter glass. When he had company, or was seeing to a patient, the music was played at a much more appreciable level. Currently, Bobby recognized Beethoven's Nineth Symphony piping quietly over the speakers. He stepped further into the room, trying to locate his friend among the scads of equipment placed what appeared to be haphazardly around the room. He finally spotted Hank in the far corner of the room, although he hadn't noticed Bobby's presence yet. Hank was facing a man sitting on a biobed, with his back to Bobby. From the shock of intensely auburne hair, and lean back with broad shoulders, Bobby concluded it was Remy LeBeau.

Bobby, like most of the students, knew little about the man who called himself Gambit. In fact, Bobby could honestly say he knew more about Sasquatch. He knew Gambit was private to the point of being secluded, he knew he didn't enjoy the company of children, and he knew that he took great pride in his hair. But other than that, the man was a mystery. Bobby had never had a conversation with him, though the same could probably be said by every student in the mansion.

"How long has this been happening?"Hank asked, solemnly. Bobby slid behind the great bulky x-ray machine. He wasn't eavesdropping, as he had been accused of doing in the past; he was just waiting patiently for Hank to be done. If he happened to hear snippets of their conversation, well, then, it was really just a coincidence.

Gambit's response did not reflect a similar attitude to Hanks. "Well, mon amis, I been shaving since I was fifteen. Accidents happen. You do de mat'."

There was a short period of silence, during which Bobby assumed Hank was tending to the wound he had noticed on Gambit's wrist. How he could get an injury like that when all he appeared to do was sit in his room all day and night, Bobby didn't know.Theoretically, it wasn't any of his business. But that certainly never stopped him before.

"You understand I'll have to let the Professor know,"Hank said then. Gambit didn't respond. He probably knew just as well as Bobby did that Hank had an obligation to discuss all injuries occuring in the mansion with the Professor. If Gambit was anything like Bobby, he hated that particular clause. Some injuries were just too embarrassing, like the time Bobby slipped on some chocolate pudding in the cafeteria, and needed six stitches in his forehead. Hearing that Professor Xavier had to be told was like rubbing salt in the wound.

"Snowball, what in de hell are you doin'?"

The muscles in Bobby's arms suddenly went limp. His physics binder crashed to the floor, and papers flew everywhere. He dropped to his knees, partly to hide the embarrassed flush in his cheeks, and partly to give his hands something to do as he gathered his work. One very important fact he had forgotten when eavesdropping on Gambit was that the man could move without making a sound. Bobby was convinced he could sneak up on anyone while wearing tap shoes if he wanted.

He finished collecting his papers, and shoved them all into his binder. He rose slowly, and was suddenly eye to adam's apple with a very irate looking Cajun mutant. Gambit looked different than Bobby remembered, though. For starters, the hair everyone knew he thought was his best feature was now barely two inches long. It was choppy and uneven, as though he had cut it himself using a knife and a mirror. The reflective sunglasses covering his eyes weren't a surprise, but the paleness of his skin was. He was wearing a dark brown button-up shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing the bandage wound around one wrist. His jeans were dark blue, almost black, and baggy. He stank of cigarette smoke, and alcohol. Granted, it had been a long time since Bobby had seen the older man, but surely that didn't account for the incredible changes.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. Even from behind sunglasses Gambit's stare was formidable. "Um, I was waiting for Hank. I was having some trouble with my physics homework, and he usually helps me out with problems I-"

"How much o' dat did you hear?"Gambit broke in, reaching out and grabbing onto Bobby's shoulder as if he thought the kid would make a break for it.

For a long moment, Bobby could only blink. Gambit's hand felt like talons, fingertips digging into muscle and pinching skin, freezing him to his spot and stealing the breath from his lungs. But then from over Gambit's shoulder he noticed Hank step closer, and he visibly relaxed. It was ridiculous to think Gambit would hurt him, but it was even more ridiculous to think he would do it with the doctor right there.

"Um, nothing. I wasn't listening in, I was just waiting."

Gambit frowned, a fierce expression deep enough to set coins in. He twisted around to regard Hank, then turned back to Bobby again. Reluctantly, it seemed, he let go and promptly shoved his hands deep in his pockets, as if afraid he might do something far worse than simply grabbing Bobby's shoulder. Hank moved forward then, grasping Gambit's upper arm in what appeared to be a friendly, reassuring gesture. The skin around Gambit's lips tightened, and he shrugged off Hank's hand, then brushed past Bobby on his way out of the medlab. Bobby watched the man leave, then turned back to frown at Hank.

"Is he alright?"

Hank shook his head slowly, and turned away from Bobby to begin cleaning up his supplies. "I don't know, my young friend. I really don't. He's having a rough time."

Bobby followed at his heels, and set his binder down on the biobed. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

Hank paused in his ministrations to give the young man a smile. "Nothing specific. Just be kind, Bobby. And try not to eavesdrop on his conversations. He has enough trouble trusting us without fearing being spied upon."

"But I wasn't eavesdro-" He closed his mouth with an audible snap. Judging from the frank look the doctor sent him, there was no way he would be able to explain his way out of this one. Instead, he merely sighed. "Okay, maybe I was. But can you blame me? Nobody knows anything about that guy. He just hides in his room all the time."

"He may be a little secluded, but he still deserves his privacy just as much as anyone else. I trust that I don't have to remind you that what you hear in this room stays in this room?"

Bobby rolled his eyes. "Geez, Hank, I'm not a first year newbie. Anyways, who besides you would I tell?"

Hank chuckled softly, then slipped the binder out from beneath Bobby's hands. "Touche, my friend. Now let's see what trouble is Professor Xavier giving you this week?"

* * *

Professor Xavier believed in second chances. He believed that people were inherently good, and it was the poor decisions they made that were bad, not the people themselves. He believed that once a person made a bad choice, they had the right to try to fix it by doing good for others. Regardless of what the rest of his team believed, that included Remy LeBeau. Charles Xavier trusted that Remy, codename Gambit, had made some comptemptible, ignorant decisions early in life, and that his joining of the X-Men was his act of retribution, to right the wrongs he had committed. He believed that Remy was a good man that had been caught in a bad situation. But despite all this, he couldn't help but feel stirrings of frustration directed at the younger man, when Hank arrived at his office to discuss the Cajun.

"I understand you have a great deal on your plate, Professor, with Parent Night coming up, but I don't think this can wait."

Charles Xavier sighed, scrubbed at his tired eyes with his knuckles, then clicked off his computers monitor. "Hank, I will always make time for my team. Though I have to ask what Remy could've possibly done now."

Hank's smile was sympathetic, and he almost didn't want to burden the Professor with this knowledge. Almost. "I realize that he has an aptitude for getting himself into trouble, but I'm afraid this instance is far more serious than previous ones."

Charles frowned. "Do tell." He clasped his hands in front of him on his mahogony desk, and leaned forward slightly.

"You recall giving him conditions upon his return to your mansion, mainly that he see me regularly for health checkups." The Professor nodded, and Hank continued. "Well, I waited for approximately an hour today for our scheduled session, but no Remy. I made the trip to his room on the third floor. Professor, not even from Logan have I ever seen a room in such dissaray. He stank of cigarette smoke and whiskey, I doubt he has showered in days. And he's lost weight. But the worst part is a shallow but long laceration I discovered on his wrist." He paused, taking a moment to collect his thoughts before going on. "Professor, I believe he is in far worse shape than we originally thought. I would've never considered the thought that he would take to hurting himself, but the wound lookly positively self-inflicted."

If at all possible, Charles' frowned deepened. It now rivalled the Grand Canyon for sheer depth. "Did you ask him about it?"

Hank's answer was deadpan. "He claimed it occured while he was shaving. But the wound was obviously fresh, and he clearly hadn't shaved in days. I want you to understand, Professor, that I am not doubting your ability to read people. But we've always known that Remy is exceptionally good at shielding his thoughts from others, and I believe that's what he has done in this case."

"I appreciate your confidence, Hank, but my power is far from absolute. The mind is fluid, always changing and evolving and expanding. It's certainly not beyond the realm of reason to put forth that I missed something. But knowing that is only one step. What do you suggest can be done about it?"

"I've been pondering this situation all afternoon, and came up with little in regards to a plan. But I do not believe Remy to be suicidal, maybe just wanting punishment for his mistakes. I believe that if we simply give him time, allow him to forgive himself for what has transpired, he will come out of it relatively unscathed."

Charles nodded slowly. "I will trust your judgement, Hank. You have no doubt spent more time with the man, and understand better than me the complexities of his mind. I will give you control of this situation, and ask only to be apprised of your progress."

"That will not be an issue, Professor. I feel better about the issue already, having discussed it with you. I will give you frequent reports on his well-being. I also think it would be a good idea to re-include him in training sessions. Giving him something to do might better persuade him to take care of himself."

"I have a meeting with Scott first thing in the morning,"the Professor offered. "I will broach the topic with him then."

Hank smiled, that was based in happiness, and a genuine sense of relief. Having a talk with Charles about problems in the mansion always had a similar effect on him. He stood slowly. "I realize you are a busy man, and I am thankful for your input."

The Professor returned his smile. "I have complete faith that you will put an end to this trouble, Hank, and if you require my assistance you need only to ask for it."

Hank left the grand office in better spirits than he had been in all day. Not even a visit from his young friend Bobby Drake had been able to pull him out of his introspective mood he had fell in after making the conclusion that Remy's wound was self-inflicted. If the young Cajun was indeed as bad off as Hank believed, then they both were in for some hard times in their future. If, however, Hank was wrong about Remy, then he would probably only succeed in distancing the man further from the team around him. It was a risk the doctor would just have to take; an X-Man's life was worth nothing less.


	3. Chapter Three

Damaged Goods- Chapter Three

Notes:Okay, so here's the next installment. I have many huge ideas for this story, but updates may be a little slow, as it takes me some time to work through them all. I hope you like Benjamin, I really do so far. There's lots of Remy and Bobby and Ben and Scott and Jean ahead, so bear with me.

* * *

Life dies inside a person when there are no others willing to be-friend him. He thus gets filled with an emptiness and a non-existent sense of self worth.

-Mark R. J. Lavoie

The cold Autumn breeze that had been comforting before nightfall now bit angrily at Benjamin Cain's face, bringing tears of reflex to his blue grey eyes. He could do little but shrug deeper into the thin corduroy jacket, his only protection from the rapidly falling temperature. He was frustatingly ill-equiped for the seasonal weather, and was unable to stop his teeth from chattering. The rip in the left knee of his old faded blue jeans provided direct access to his most vulnerable body parts for harsh winds seeking a target. His feet, inside his poorly sized and horribly worn sneakers were blistered and bloody. But still he walked on, afraid to stop and think of what was in store for him, afraid that if he stopped he would never start again. It occurred to him as he walked, as the street emptied of people, that he didn't remember the city ever getting this cold in October. But he instantly realized the thought to be useless, and thus discarded it. It didn't matter if it had never been that cold before. Hell, it didn't even matter if a glacier moved into town and mastadons set up shop. If that was the way it was, then that was the way it was, and there was nothing Ben could do to change it. So he gritted his teeth and continued to walk, surmising that as long as he was moving, he didn't have to think about where he was going. It was an illogical mind set, but it was all he had.

He had finally gotten the courage to leave that horrible place they called a group home. The place where, just like a popular Dickens novel, asking for a second plate of food only earned you a slap in the face. The place where you had to fight for a blanket, and if you were too small, or too slow, or just unwilling to fight, you would go without. It was the worst kind of competition. The kind that pitted kids with nothing against each other. When they should've been banding together for their own survival, they were fighting for possession of the few meager things they'd been provided. Ben hated it with a passion he rarely felt about anything, but it was all he'd ever known. At times, the familiar had seemed better than the unknown. But no more. He reached his breaking point.

Ben had woken up in a broom closet that morning. Stuffed into the smallest shape he could make himself, crouching behind a mop bucket that stunk of vomit and something else, something worse. Confusion, and a general feeling of anxiety had frozen him. The door to the closet had been shut, but from beyond it Ben had heard several unusual voices. It was rare that you met new people in a place like that. By pressing his ear against the hollow cored door, he was able to piece together bits and pieces of the conversation. They said he nearly flash fried a man. Specifically, a group of what Ben guessed was four police officers had come to the home to question him after a man who worked there claimed Ben had burned him. With his mind. Gerald Price, the principal man in charge at the group home, had apparently been rushed to the hospital sometime after lights out with second and third degree burns. He'd told the police that Ben had done it, that he was a mutant and therefore dangerous. The problem was Ben didn't remember doing it. Of course, he didn't remember not doing it either. There was a gap in his memory, one that spanned from just before the lights in the boys' room were turned out, ending with him waking up in the broom closet. To be frank, he was scared. The indications were terrifying at best. On one hand, he'd supposedly burned a man with just a thought. On the other hand, there was a chunk of memory missing from his mind that he was unlikely to get back. Neither problem was particularly comforting. He knew what a mutant was, and he didn't want to be one. He had enough trouble getting by as it was, he didn't need another reason for people to hate and distrust him.

So he ran. He'd spent nearly twelve years in that home; the police never really stood a chance. He knew every hiding spot, every secret exit in that building. With only the jacket he'd managed to grab on the way out, he'd left the home and not looked back. As night fell, and the temperature continued to drop, he was beginning to wonder if leaving had been such a good idea. Surely he could've explained to the police what he didn't remember doing. But Ben was a smart kid. He knew the implications of the accusations against him; society often sided against mutants, no matter what the argument. If he was to believe all that he had heard while in that broom closet, and he was a mutant, then he was better off on his own.

If he had really lit a man on fire with his mind, then it wasn't a stretch of the imagination to think that he could start a fire for warmth. It would, after all, be better than dying of hypothermia. Though he doubted it was really that cold, he wasn't quite prepared to take that bet. The only problem was he had no idea how he'd done it, if he'd done it at all. But it was high time he started to think about his survival. The group home had certainly not been a walk in the park, but he had gotten three meals a day, and the bed had been lumpy, but it still had been a bed. Although he'd lived in New York City for all of his seventeen years, he'd never really been out on the streets this late. Life in a group home was pretty structured. It was eerily strange for him to walk down the sidewalk as store fronts were closed and barred, and neon lights were shut down until darkness the next night. He passed by an open alleyway, and winced as a harsh wind swept by him. He supposed it was about time he found a place to stay for the night. Hopefully there was a nook or a cranny somewhere he could claim as his own until sun up.

Ben was lucky. Well, perhaps using the term "lucky" to describe his current situation required a greater stretch of the imagination than even he was capable of. But he was alive, and had found shelter from the wind crammed between two dumpsters in an alleyway off 32nd Street. It wasn't exactly an ideal vacationing spot, but the break from the wind allowed him to attempt to light a fire. He had scavenged a few newspapers from the dumpsters surrounding him, with a piece of splintering wood he'd broken off a packing crate serving as a log. He arranged the combustible items in a vague pyramid shape, then held his open hands over it, palms facing the ground.

"Okay, Benny-Boy, this should be easy as pie. This shit is drier than the Sahara, one spark and it should light up like a fucking Christmas tree,"he spoke softly to himself. As if sheer force of will alone would ignite his creation, he scowled at the wood and paper. "All ya need to do is find out whatever the hell it was they said you did earlier, and presto changeo, you got yourself a neat little fire."

He rubbed his hands together, wiggled his fingers over the pyre, glared at it like it had personally insulted him...but still no fire. He found it unsatisfingly ironic that not even an hour ago the idea of being able to start a fire with his mind had filled him with dread, but now he longed to feel the heat of the flame.

"Benjamin?"

He started at the sudden voice in the otherwise quiet, unconsciously pushing himself further into the crevice. A slim, highly attractive redhead in an impractical evening dress and high heels was peering between the dumpsters at him with an unreadable emotion written all over her face. His heart beat like a battering ram in his ears, not just from the adrenaline response, but also from the idea that she knew his name, and what such knowledge implicated.

"Who's asking?"he called out, and was arrogantly pleased with the strength he heard in his tone.

An almost non-existent smile crossed her face. "My name is Jean Grey. I work for the Xavier Institute, and I'd like to help you."

"Who says I need help?"he shouted instantly, a knee jerk response to one too many insincere attempts at caring. Except even as he thought that, he knew that something about her was different, felt different, than anyone else. He didn't understand the feeling she was genuine, and didn't know where it came from, but nonetheless, he found himself scooching forward, towards her instead of away like his basic instincts screamed.

She smiled all out this time, and Ben was struck by her beauty. Not in a movie star/super model kind of way, she was beautiful in a much more sophisticated style. Comparable to English royalty, like Princess Diana had been. He was close enough now to see she had blue eyes, and a light dusting of freckles across her nose. "Do you always hide out behind dumpsters, Ben? May I call you Ben?"

He stood slowly, pulling himself up with a hand on each of the garbage bins. "How do you know my name, Ms. Grey?"

She took a step towards him, and he responded by taking one back. "Please, call me Jean. A man I work with was contacted by a police officer with the NYPD. He told my co-worker that they were looking for you, and that you might be safer with us, at the Institute."

"Did he say why?"Ben asked, a little too quickly. Some colour had drained from his face, but he had some experience hiding his emotions from others. "Why they're looking for me, I mean."

He noticed her hesitate for a split second, and wondered briefly if maybe things had changed, gotten worse, since he had left the home.

"There's a man in the hospital, Ben. He says you put him there. He says you lit him on fire with your mind. Now the police want to find you, ask you some questions."

Ben snorted sarcastic laughter. "Yeah, okay. They bring me in, decide maybe I am a mutant, and next thing you know, they're trying to convince the public I died of natural causes in their holding cell."

Jean shook her head slowly, but didn't deny him any further. "Are you?"

"Am I what? A mutant?" He laughed again, but this was nervous, higher pitched than the first. He answered her question with one of his own. "Are you?"

A delicately sculpted eyebrow raised slightly, before another sliver of a smile crossed her lips. She raised her hands, fingers extended and spread apart, palms facing downwards, and allowed her eyes to fall close. Ben took several steps backwards, as he felt a warm breeze caress his face softly. His self-made pyre, still standing at his feet, shifted just noticably, before rising into the air as a whole. Ben's eyes widened, and he fell back another step as the some what lacking bonfire rose to waist height. His gaze flickered to Jean's face, and he realized she was watching him, controlling the pyre carefully but studying his face for some kind of reaction.

"Wholy shit,"he breathed, as the sticks and paper settled back to the ground as they had been before the incredible display. "You just lifted that fucking thing with your mind, didn't you?"

She smiled warmly, and nodded. "Yes, I did. I'm a mutant, Ben. And I suspect you are too, whether you know it or not."

"And if I am? If I did light Gerry on fire with just a thought?"

Jean moved towards him, and this time, he didn't back away. She extended a hand, and touched his shoulder gently. "If you are, then we can help you. Charles Xavier's Institute was established with the sole purpose of helping mutants. People like you with nowhere to go and no one to turn to. We have the facilities to help mutants learn to control their powers, and at the same time receive a normal high school education. It's a place where young people like you can feel comfortable and accepted, learn in a place without hate. But even if you aren't a mutant, Ben, I'd like for you to come with me. The Institute had many spare beds, you can get a hot meal, and a warm, dry place for the night. We can help you find out if this man's accusations have any credibility, and if they don't, we can at least help you find a place to stay."

Ben said nothing for a long minute. As tempting as it sounded, he didn't want to get himself involved in anything that might be dangerous. He could take care of himself fairly well, but not against mutants like this Jean Grey. On the other hand, he didn't have very much to lose. And if she was telling the truth, it might be a good idea to get off the street, where the police couldn't find him. A hot meal and a warm bed was always a plus too. He sighed heavily. "So what's for dinner?"

Jean laughed. "Well now, that depends on what you like. We have just about everything."

Ben stepped out of the shadows, and allowed her to put her arm around his shoulders.

"My car's just out here." She led him out the alley, back to the New York sidewalk, where a 2004 Audi was idling at the curb;a tall, brown haired man leanded in casual waiting against the driver's side door. He turned and regarded Ben cooly through red lensed sunglasses, a reluctant smile coming to his face after a lingering minute. Ben held his gaze, but other than the tension gathering in his shoulders and arms, he did nothing.

"Ben, this is my husband, Scott Summers. He works at the Institute as well."

"How ya doing, Ben?" Scott nodded his greeting, and opened the back door of the Sedan.

"You a mutant too?" Ben asked. He didn't get in the car, rather stepped away from Jean and faced Scott squarely, with his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Scott smiled, and shared an imperceptible look with his wife. "He's real forward, isn't he, Jean?"

"I bet there's a lot of things about me that would surprise you. Now answer my damn question. Are you a mutant?"

Jean's eyebrows rose almost beneath her hairline; a similar look of surprise was shown on Scott's visage. "Um, yeah, I'm a mutant too. My body converts solar energy into optic blasts."

Ben nodded thoughtfully. "Then I'm guessing the funny looking glasses have something to do with that?"

"Yeah, I don't wear them because I think they're cool." Scott glanced past the younger man's shoulder to look at Jean. "Can we get going now? It's getting late, and we've got an early training session."

"I think that would be a good idea." Jean stepped forward, and placed a careful hand on Ben's back. "Okay, Ben?"

Ben frowned fiercely at Scott. His instincts screamed at him not to get in that car, that this Scott guy was bad news. Ben had seen his type before; could read him from the way he gave orders, even as subtly as he had been doing. This was the kind of man who liked to be in charge, and that scared Ben more than he ever cared to admit. But still, Jean had given him nothing but vibes of safety. With her so close, he couldn't help but wonder if maybe this was the lucky break he had so desperately been searching for.

With one glance into her clear blue eyes, Ben bent and slid into the backseat of the car.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Yes, a fourth chapter. I don't know if that blows anyone away, but it sorta does me. Anyways, the reason this one took so long was that I had no idea anyone liked it. I was a little proud of it, then I made a huge mistake and introduced an original character.

But that's neither here nor there. This is the fourth chapter, but please let me know it you like it! I don't want to wait another year before I get some inspiration.

* * *

Instead of heading down to the rec room to watch the Michael Myers movie marathon with the other students like he told Scott he would, Bobby headed down to the kitchen with the sole intention of recreating his mom's award winning chewy chocolate fudge brownies. It had been difficult to weasel the recipe out of her over the phone, but Bobby had a lifetime of getting things he would be otherwise denied by means of guilt trips. His mother was an easy mark, and he was rarely declined. The ingredients and procedure was scribbled on a piece of graph paper he had ripped from his physics notebook, after giving up on the homework Hank had attempted to help him understand.

Lucky for Bobby, the kitchen was empty at nine o'clock at night. The cinema goers had already raided the cupboards for all the best stuff, and wouldn't be back for at least another two movies. Although with teenage girls, one could never be certain. He would have to tread lightly, otherwise Bobby risked having to share his creation, and he wasn't quite prepared to do that. At least, not with just anyone. These brownies had a target; an intended recipient and Bobby didn't plan on veering from that destiny. He started by gathering the things he would need. A large, wooden bowl, spatula, stick of butter, chocolate chips, and various other supplies until the marble topped island was covered with materials. Jean came in at that point, doing the responsible teacher/guardian thing. She asked what he was doing, if he knew how to properly use the oven, if he would clean up after himself. He responded cryptically to the first, and yes to the last two. Apparently satisfied, she moved on to check the other rooms of her assigned wing of the mansion.

Two hours and three batches later, Bobby was finally satisfied with his work. It had taken an hour and forty minutes longer than he had planned, but it was finished and he was pleased. There was brownie batter on the ceiling that he didn't remember getting there, and hadn't been able to clean. But that was okay; people rarely looked up at the ceiling anyways. By the time someone did, his brownie adventure would be long forgotten. He scraped the fudgey mess out of the pan, and cut them into neat squares. His mother had always said that presentation was key, so he climbed up on the counter and pulled down the daisy plate from on top of the fridge. He wasn't sure if it was going to be appreciated, but like his mother also said, it was the thought that counted. So he piled his little brownies onto the plate, and covered it with plastic wrap, because you could never really be sure about these things.

A full two hours after he had decided to go through with his idea, he stopped to survey the kitchen on his way out the door. He was anything but a housekeeper, but his cleaning up job was adequate, and he doubted even Scott could find fault with it. So he carried his batch of brownies to the main floor elevator, because he was admittedly a little clumsy and didn't trust himself on three flights of stairs. He wasn't entirely sure where he was going, but only two residents of the Xavier mansion lived on the third floor. His search, even if it could be called that, wouldn't be very difficult.

The elevator opened up onto the third floor, identical in design and decoration to the first two. Hardwood floors, paneled mahogany walls, recessed pot lighting gave the whole hallway the feel of a museum. The illusion was made complete by sporadically placed artwork hanging on the walls, lit from above by small spotlights. Bobby stepped off the elevator, and onto the polished hardwood floor. A nervous stirring had developed in the pit of his stomach. His room was not only on another floor, it was in another wing. It would be difficult to explain his presence here, with a plate of brownies in his hands. And he wasn't sure he wanted anyone to know why he was on the third floor of the mansion, looking for a man who preferred to remain hidden.

"Drake!"

Bobby froze mid-stride, and by some divine miracle managed to hang on to his plate of brownies. He turned around slowly, all the while ordering his heart to slow its erratic tempo. Quite possibly the last person he would've hoped to run into on the third floor was striding purposefully towards him. The old wife beater smeared with oil and ripped jeans made Logan seem even more intimidating.

"Uh, hi, Logan. What's going on?"

Logan's left eyebrow nearly disappeared beneath his hairline. He ignored Bobby's question, sniffed delicately at the brownies.

"Didn't know you were a baker, Drake. What's the occasion?"

Bobby shrugged. He wasn't really sure what he should say; if at all possible Logan was as difficult to read as Gambit. "There's no occasion. It's my mom's recipe. You want one?"

A sliver of a smile crossed Logan's face, but Bobby was sure he would later deny it. "No. But I still gotta ask you what you're doing up here. Most kids stay the hell away."

Bobby kept in the routine protest at being called a kid, and instead said, "um, I was looking for Gambit. I, um, had some questions about a French assignment Ororo gave us, and thought he could help me."

Logan leveled him with a long look, and Bobby was suddenly wondering how it would feel to be tossed out the window headfirst. But then Logan was raising his hand, pointing down the hallway and back the way Bobby had just come. "Last door on the right. He doesn't like visitors though, so watch your head."

With that, he patted Bobby's back heartily, nearly knocking the kid over, and passed him on his way to his own room.

Bobby remained in the middle of the hallway, frowning at Logan's warning. 'Watch your head.' He never would've pegged Gambit as the violent type, but he realized now that that assumption was based only on knowing he was an X-Man. Living in this mansion, he had learned that even though they were essentially superheroes, the X-Men were normal people too. And normal people had proven time and time again that they were capable of violence. So it wouldn't be too far a stretch to think that Gambit would hurt someone if he were in a foul enough mood. It would be a foolish move, and probably get him kicked out, but Bobby could attest most men rarely thought of the consequences of their actions when in the heat of the moment.

He shrugged, and moved down the hallway anyway. Maybe he wasn't giving Gambit enough credit. For all he knew, Logan was pulling his leg. He stood uncomfortably before the aforementioned door, fingers tightening reflexively on the plate. Then a wave of impulsiveness hit him, and he banged against the door with his elbow.

"Gambit? Are you in there? It's Bobby."

Deafening silence greeted him. He raised his hand to knock again, but the door opened seemingly of its own accord. Bobby hesitated on the threshold. Nearly every horror movie ever successful had a scene in it like this very situation. He would've bet money that it would slam shut once he was on the other side. But he had been called a coward enough times to know he wasn't.

Bobby stepped into the room, and his nose immediately wrinkled at the smell. Stale cigarette smoke mixed with the overwhelming stench of gut-rotting alcohol. There were clothes everywhere, littering the floor. Drawers had been pulled out of the dresser, their contents spilling onto the hardwood beneath. The bed was unsurprisingly not made.

"Gambit?" It was unclear how a person could stand to live in a place like this, but it didn't seem to matter at the time, because he wasn't there. The window, however, was standing open, a gentle breeze blowing in from the night beyond. Bobby carefully picked a path through the chaos, and stuck his head out the open space. A trellis was bolted to the brick wall next to the window, one on which a thick climbing vine grew. If he squinted, and cocked his head to the side, he could sort of make out a path of crushed leaves and broken stems where a person might have made there way up. Frowning, he looked down the lawn below. Three stories was a long way to fall on a 'might-have.'

But how many times had Bobby been upset, wishing fervently that someone would take the time to see why, but not knowing how to ask for help? He had his suspicions about Gambit, and if any of them were remotely seated in truth, then the older man was feeling the same way.

His mind made up, Bobby clutched the plate close to his chest and reached one hand out to grab on to the trellis. It felt deceptively strong; the wood beneath his fingers much heavier than it appeared to be. This gave him great comfort as he stepped out onto the window ledge and told himself not to look down. He began climbing, moving slowly and carefully up the trellis.

It wasn't as difficult as he would've assumed, but even as the thought crossed his mind, even as he was reaching for his next handhold, something underneath his left foot snapped, and he was falling. There wasn't time to imagine his head spattered about the patio below like a crushed melon, or even cry out, before something snagged his wrist. Intense, head dizzying pain followed, moving from his shoulder all the way up to his hand. A strangled noise escaped his lips, and then he began to rise, painstaking slow, but rise nonetheless.

Minutes later, he felt the slate tile covered roof beneath his back, even with his sneakered feet still hanging in the dark abyss below. His chest was heaving, both with pain and the exertion of the past minute. He lay like that for quite some time before it occurred to him that he hadn't pulled _himself _up.

"You don' climb dat many trellis', d'ya, Icecube?"

Bobby instantly recognized the southern accent that went with the fluid voice, but did not have the sense of mind to be afraid. He snorted nervous laughter. "Is it that obvious?"

Gambit lay on the shingles next to Bobby, his pale countenance seeming even paler when contrasted to the dark roof beneath him. He too was panting slightly; even the effort of pulling up the relatively light Bobby Drake had zapped his strength. "Den what de hell are y'doin' up here?"

Bobby noticed then that he was still hugging the plate of brownies tight to his chest. "I was trying to find you." He held out the plate to Gambit, who did nothing more than languidly raise an eyebrow.

"Brownies?" His tone was incredulous, his expression deadpan, like he couldn't believe what was right in front of his eyes. "You made me brownies?"

Bobby closed his eyes again, shifted on the roof in an attempt to lessen the discomfort on his shoulder. "Mom's special recipe. Had to promise her a daughter-in-law and grandkids in the next ten years."

Gambit smirked, took the plate from Bobby's outstretched grasp and laid it down on the copper shingles next to him. He poked at the plastic wrap, now blended thoroughly with the chocolate frosting, and made a face. "Dat's quite a sacrifice. How's y'shoulder?"

Bobby winced dramatically, tried to lift it off the slate tiles. "Well, my arm's still attached. That's a good sign, right?"

Gambit sighed, sat up after a moment's silence. "Hank would kill me if I don' get y'to de med lab. Get yer ass up, Snowball."

Bobby also sat up slowly, and looked towards the edge of the roof with a pained expression. "Is there an easier way down?"

Gambit laughed brokenly as he pushed himself to his feet, and assisted Bobby up as well. "If y'quiet, and promise not t'peek, we can cut t'rough Storm's room."

Bobby's face immediately flushed deep crimson, though if asked about it, he would swear on his mint condition Spiderman #1 graphic novel that it was an effect of the pain. It was no secret to anyone living in the mansion that Bobby harbored a deep, and spiritual love, for the mansion's resident Wind Rider. Being in her bedroom, her most private place would be like…. There was no suitable comparison, and Bobby's mind shut down at the implications.

"Popsicle!"

Bobby regained his focus, and without risking tumbling ass over teakettle down the slanted roof, carefully hurried after the Cajun mutant. Gambit led the way across the slate, around a gable, and onto to the next section of roof before they reached an open window jutting out from the tile. A plain white linen curtain blew from inside the room, flowing gently in the twilight current.

Gambit stood next to the windowsill, and Bobby used the older man's shoulder for balance as he swung onto the bare hardwood floor. And then he froze, as several things occurred to him at once.

The first was that there was more plant life in this room than on the entire grounds. Potted plants hung from the exposed rafters, stood on simple wooden plant stands, and had collected in all the corners of the room. The astonishing thing was they all seemed to be thriving, and in excellent health. Even the hard to reach ones.

The second thing that occurred to Bobby was that this was the most reclusive room on the property. Anything could go on up here, and no one would be the wiser. He wasn't entirely sure how he felt about that.

The third, and inconceivably last thing he noticed, was that he was not alone in the room, despite the fact that Gambit had yet to follow him. He stood rooted in place, sore shoulder long forgotten but still held protectively against his chest, and stared. Stared at Her. Standing a scant few feet away. Watering a tray of seedlings with a tiny little rain cloud controlled by Her mutation. Wearing a nightgown. A lacy nightgown. A lacy nightgown that might've been found between the pages of Playboy, or Penthouse. It was far too dark to be sure, but Bobby was almost positive it was at least a little bit sheer…

Gambit thumped to the ground next to him, and Bobby jumped at the intrusion. The loud noise distracted him, and he turned away from what could only be explained as a hallucination brought on by intense pain and adrenaline. Gambit caught his eye, and though Bobby could never be sure, he would've sworn at that moment he could see an embarrassed flush rise to the older mutant's cheeks. Like he was ashamed of something…

"Remy, my friend. What is going on?"

Gambit and Bobby both turned at the voice. Gambit's gaze flickered from Bobby, to the plate of brownies that remained in his own hand, back to Bobby, before finally returning to Storm.

"Uh, we sorta had an accident. Snowcone hear didn' want to try de trellis 'gain."

It was then, and only then, that Storm noticed the tight expression on Bobby's face, the way he hugged his arm to his body.

"My Goddess, Bobby! What happened?"

She started to rush forward, hands reaching out to sooth and comfort, when Gambit cleared his throat quite loudly. He motioned towards Bobby, in particular his glazed over, staring eyes, then pointed to light blue silk robe that hung on the back of her door. Storm nodded without embarrassment, shrugged into the bathrobe, then returned to Bobby's side.

"What happened, Bobby?" she repeated, gently touching his cheek with one hand, laying the other on his uninjured shoulder.

Bobby, to whom the pain was rapidly becoming too much, shrugged the shoulder on which Storm's hand rested. "I was …looking for Gambit…the roof…"

He fell into silence, rocked slowly on his feet before Gambit's hand steadied him. Anger flashed through Storm's eyes, the chocolate brown pupils began disappearing beneath deadly white, and somewhere in the distance thunder boomed.

Gambit's gaze narrowed; he was not a stupid man, and made the connection, but he barely managed to conceal the hurt that twisted his features. "You t'ink I did dis. You t'ink I hurt Drake."

Bobby shook his head, mostly oblivious of the moment passing over his head. "Didn't hurt me. Saved me. Can we…go see Hank?"

The whispered request was enough to break whatever it was passing between the two adults, and Storm carefully ushered Bobby towards the narrow stairs and door leading to the third floor.

Gambit watched them go. His shoulders slowly hunched in towards himself, his chin dropping to his chest. He remained in that sullen, dispirited stance until he heard the door at the bottom of the stairs opening to let them out, then he jumped up to follow.

One flight of stairs, a twenty feet walk, and an elevator ride later, Bobby was being supported carefully between Gambit and Storm. The pain of his shoulder combined with the after-effects of the enormous amount of adrenaline to course through his veins had taken its toll.

They reached the med lab an eternity later, and Storm had barely begun to call out to Hank before he bounded over like an oversized lemur.

"Oh, my stars and garters," he said, running a practiced eye over the pale Bobby Drake. "What happened here?"

Gambit was certain that the majority of the reason why Hank made such a powerful connection with his patients was that he never over-exaggerated the situation. It didn't matter what the injury or sickness was; anybody who was treated by Dr. McCoy believed they would come out of it no worse for wear.

Storm sub-consciously glanced over at Gambit, then said, "there was a bit of an accident."

Gambit knew as soon as the words crossed her lips that he was in trouble. Anybody with two fully fuctioning eyes in their sockets knew that Hank had a soft spot for Bobby. So he can't say he was at all surprised when the doctor left Bobby's side to grab Gambit by the lapels of his jacket, and slam him against the nearest wall. The Cajun's head bounced painfully off the metal lined concrete, and he winced, but otherwise didn't react.

"Hank, no!" Bobby cried, sliding off the exam table Hank had lifted him on. He reached Hank's side at the same time as Ororo, and both laid hands on his shoulders, attempting to calm him.

"He didn't do this," Bobby said emphatically, all traces of his earlier pain long forgotten. "He saved me. I was climbing up to the roof, and the trellis broke. Gambit caught me."

Hank took one eye off the motionless Cajun to stare at Bobby, then, as if horrified by what he had done, gradually lessened his grip until Gambit's boots once again touched the floor.

He was opening his mouth to apologize, even as blood was infusing his face in embarrassment. But Gambit wasn't going to hear it. He shirked his duster out of Hank's grasp, and without looking at any of them, stalked out of the med lab.

The silence that pervaded in his wake was unusually booming. Unsurprisingly, it was Hank who broke it.

"I…I had no idea. I just assumed…"

Ororo sighed. "I believe that, my friend, is the problem."

She reached out and touched his shoulder, to ease any sting her words might've brought. Then she left the med lab, striding determinately after the Cajun.

Hank waited until the lab doors closed behind her, then he turned to his young charge, and said, "oh, Bobby, my dear friend. I do believe I have put my size twelve and a half in as far as it can go."

Bobby winced, for now that the excitement was over, his arm was beginning to throb again. "That's okay, Hank. There's always time to apologize. You wanna gimme a hand now?"

Hank sighed, then turned to help Bobby back over to the exam table. The young man was, of course, right. There would always be time to apologize….Provided the Cajun mutant would listen to him.

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	5. Chapter Five

A/N: I apologize for the wait for this chapter. My computer crashed, and I thought I was going to lose everything. Thanks to a good friend, though, it was all recovered. I know this installment is short, but it's meant to be. There's more coming soon.

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"The mansion was built in the late 1800's, by one of Professor Xavier's ancestors. It's been in his family every since."

Scott Summers glanced over his shoulder, in hopes of catching a glimpse of the awe he knew must exist. Xavier's Institute was an incredible piece of architecture, even excluding the incredible technological additions, and very few people who visited it were not affected by the hundred year old red brick, copper tile roofing, and etched glass windows. The quality of construction was something rarely seen in newly built houses these days, where the goal seemed to be to create as many homes as quickly as possible, with little to no regard for architecture or design.

Unfortunately for Scott's ego, it appeared as if Benjamin Cain was one of those few who found more interest in the toes of his sneakers than he did the historical mansion rising up before him. He had submitted to Scott's tour with the reluctant acceptance of a man wary to upset a newly found good opportunity. He now followed several steps behind Scott and Jean, trudging along the gravel path that led from the garage where they had parked the Audi to the front entrance of the mansion.

Dusk had already fallen, and the night was coming on quickly. Activated by light sensors installed in their heads, a series of knee high solar powered pathway lamps came on, illuminating the gravel beneath their feet. The light bounced off the small, waist high shrubs that lined either side of the lane, creating interesting shadow patterns across the rock.

Up ahead, the sound of a door slamming shut echoed down the path. An obviously feminine voice called out into the night.

"Remy, wait! Please!"

The chest high rod iron gate at the end of the gravel laneway swung open, and a tall, lean, auburn haired man strode angrily through, slamming the gate behind him. The ankle length light brown leather duster he wore billowed out theatrically in his wake; he brushed past Scott and Jean without sparing them a glance.

"Stop, Remy!"

The rod iron gate was opened a second time, admitting a stunningly beautiful white haired woman. She was dressed in a lacy nightgown, barely covered by a soft pink silk bathrobe cinched loosely overtop. Ben watched her run barefoot over the sharp gravel, before realizing with a start that her feet didn't appear to touch the ground at all. She ran as though she was cushioned on air, and when a gentle breeze lifted Ben's hair as she hurried past him, he knew that it was entirely possible. It seemed as though the world that had just opened up to him in the span of day was limitless with its possibilities.

Another door slammed further down the path, back in the direction of the garage, then a motor revved up, loud and angry. Ben, who used to work as the resident mechanic back at the group home, recognized it as not belonging to any car he had ever known, and thus, given the varieties of vehicles that had passed through his care, he knew the noise had to be coming from a motorcycle of some kind. The engine rumble reached its peak, and abruptly dropped several decibels as the rider shifted gears. Then an offensive shriek of rubber burning onto pavement streaked through the air, and the noise eventually began to fade as the motorcycle sped into the distance.

Ben turned slowly back to Scott and Jean, who had also stopped to regard the drama unfolding before them. They were standing about a foot apart, facing each other, and though they were neither touching, nor speaking, their eye contact was unwavering, and unhesitating. Neither individual looked anything but normal on their own, but when considered together, in the same context, goosebumps broke out on Ben's lower arms as a chill ran down his spine.

"You must be Benjamin."

He whirled around at the sudden voice, furious at himself that he had not seen its speaker coming. The same woman who had just moments ago raced by him like the very flames of hell were licking her feet now walked towards him, with a welcoming smile on her face. He noticed instantly that she had taken steps to make herself look more presentable; the silk robe was cinched tighter around her waist, and she had managed to procure a pair of worn leather loafers. She had also gathered her elbow length snow white hair at the nape of her neck, and tied it securely.

"My name is Ororo Munroe. I'm sorry to interrupt your tour so rudely." She spoke with an accent that Ben could not place, having never left New York, and without regular access to a tv.

"Ben, Ororo works with us at the Institute," Jean spoke up, suddenly standing next to him, and reaching down slowly to touch his shoulder. "She teaches a few different history courses, and helps Scott out with the English workload."

Ben noticed that none of the trio surrounding him made mention of what had gone on only moments before. Not only that, but no one cared to explain why this history teacher had been quite literally walking on air. He nodded, filed the whole exchange in the back of his mind for later consideration, and looked expectantly at Jean.

She took his not-so-subtle hint, and smiled. "Well, it's getting late. I guess we should be getting on with this tour."

She took the elbow Scott offered her, and they continued towards the mansion together. Ororo fell into step next to Ben himself, although she made no attempt at conversation.

They reached the ornately designed rod iron gate separating gravel path from paved courtyard. Ben, who had been walking with his head hanging until only recently, abruptly stopped walking, craning his neck upwards in an attempt to take in all of the mansion that rose up before him. The courtyard in which they stood was surrounded on three sides by the front entrance of the mansion, and two wings on either side. Thick, bright red ivy climbed up the red brick walls on either side of the courtyard, reaching all the way to the roof, although it was neatly trimmed along the lines of the gutters. Ben could make out at least three floors, although there were so many variables he couldn't be sure. The front doors could only be reached by a set of concrete steps leading up to a pair of mahogany doors at least twelve feet high.

"It is quite a sight, isn't it?"

Ben couldn't take his eyes off it long enough to find out who had spoken. The front steps were surrounded on both sides by landscaped gardens with a variety of different plant life, some in full bloom with just as many with simple green foliage. A statue carved from marble stood in the centre of the courtyard, lit from beneath with three separate spotlights. Ben recognized the figure as the mystical Phoenix rising from the ashes.

Scott caught the look of awe he had been waiting for all night, and smirked knowingly at Ben. "You should see the inside."

It never occurred to Ben that such a magnificent structure would even have an inside. Living in New York, he had seen countless feats of architecture, but had never stepped inside one. The thought that the inside might not do justice to the outside made him reluctant to want to step through those great mahogany doors.

"We don't usually use this entrance," Jean explained, as they climbed the cement stairs to the front door. She grinned, then continued. "It's great for theatrics, but not very practical. There's a side entrance we'll show you that's much easier to use."

As if providing proof for the impracticality of such immense doors, it required both Scott and Jean to push open one, although neither seemed to mind.

As if sensing his reluctance to enter, Ororo smiled reassuringly at him. "I know it's a little overwhelming," she spoke softly, and Ben was confident the remainder of their group could not hear her words. "But as big and impersonal as it seems, this mansion is home. I hope you can give it a chance."

He didn't care to mention to her that in all likelihood, he would not be staying. Jean and Scott now stood inside the open doorway, and try as he might, Ben could not see into the mansion behind them, a result of the backlighting of the statue in the courtyard. He glanced once more at Ororo, and surprised himself by finding strength in her unwavering gaze. It was unlike Ben to need support from anyone other than himself, but he realized this woman was unlike anyone he had ever met. The same could be said for the two people waiting for him on the other side of the threshold. It was the first time he had met anyone who seemed to have his best interests at mind. Of course, he realized this was taking a great leap of faith, especially for him, but he found he wanted it. He wanted to take a chance like he had never before, and more than anything he wanted that chance to pay-off.

He dredged up a partial smile for Ororo, and with his hands clenched into nervous fists at his sides, he stepped through the doorway, and across the threshold.


End file.
